


My Eyes Repeat

by gloss



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex With People You Dislike, Size Kink, Sparring, Unforgivable Hot & Cold Puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 11:42:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6327601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snart and Rory are a package deal; she can work with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Eyes Repeat

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Television, [The Fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AREQLeFUcUc).
> 
> For Marcia, if she wants. Also beta'd by her because I am terrible.

Sara likes sparring with Rory. He's a meathead, sure, and he fights dirty, and mean, but he never pulls a punch. With his heft and low center of gravity, he's difficult to knock down. Not *impossible*, but it's an enjoyable challenge.

With Snart hovering in the corner, watching, she's got an audience, too. 

And if she should hurt Rory, which she has, she doesn't need to feel all that guilty. He's a good target.

Ra's's training is, essentially, pure sadism: bodies are parts, nerves and bones and muscle, that can be attacked, injured, incapacitated, according to your will, your pleasure. Outside of the sparring room, she has to struggle to shift that perspective, to fill in the people inhabiting the bodies, recall their souls.

But here, things are simpler. Rory's big, heavy body is a series of points and she can smack, chase, bruise, even break, whichever she wants.

He's backed up against the wall; she'd rather he was down, but she'll take this for the time being. She has the sparring stick against his throat. They're both breathing hard, but he's about to have a lot more trouble.

"Getting excited, little girl?" he says. His eyes are mean, his upper lip bleeding. 

She leans in, adds pressure to the center of her palms, transferring it to the stick.

His eyes bulge just a little more.

"That last high kick of yours," Rory says, and sniffs loudly, theatrically, "practically broadcast what you're feeling. What you're ready for."

Across the room, Snart snickers.

"Can I help you?" she asks over her shoulder.

Snart's lounging in a spare chair, wearing that stupid parka he never takes off, arms crossed loosely over his chest. "Me? I'm cool --"

Rory takes advantage of her distraction, kneeing her in the stomach, rolling free of her stick.

"-- but you might want to watch out."

Sara brings the stick down on the back of Rory's neck and jabs her elbow into his kidneys. As he falls, she jumps on his arm, wrestling over onto his back. His head thuds with a most satisfying sound when he hits the mat.

"Hot for it, aren't you?" Rory asks as she straddles his hips, hand on his throat. She can't span his neck, he's that *thick*, but she doesn't need to. Just the heel of her hand against his windpipe, two fingers pinching his subclavian artery, and he'll quiet down.

Eventually.

He smacks her ass with his free hand.

"Know a little something about that," he adds, and rolls up his hips under her. "Be happy to help."

She wants to kill him. It would be so easy. It might, *might*, quiet the sick hunger that's always crawling up her throat and clutching at her cunt. But the quiet wouldn't last for long, never for long enough.

"I'd listen, if I were you," Snart says, dragging his chair closer. "He's not exactly the most generous guy."

Sara lets herself pant. Rory's hand is still on her ass, massaging her like meat; she pictures him dying, slow or fast, agonizing or mercy-quick, the light going out and his body returned to stillness, and has to grind against his crotch.

"An offer like this --" Snart continues, leaning over, hands clasped before him as he cocks his head. The way he watches them, watches Rory, is never less than creepy.

"Limited time," Rory finishes for him, thrusting up against her.

Her fingers close like claws against the muscle in his neck. "You're sick."

"And you're soaked," he tells her, wheezing, as he pushes his hand between her legs. "*Burning* for it."

"Shut up." She covers his mouth with her hand, the teeth behind his lips sharp, watches him fight to breathe through his nose. He's right, for once, but leave it to Rory to only get something right when it's as obvious as the weather.

He rolls his fist against her crotch and squints at her. His face is getting darker, redder. Hotter. She could rub herself off against his hand; it's big and rough, as mean as the rest of him, exactly what she deserves.

"You want this more than I do," she tells him.

He rolls his eyes and nips at her palm. _Duh,_ he might as well have said.

"No shit, sweetheart," Snart says. The two of them share one (relentlessly mediocre) brain, that's the best explanation.

Sara braces her hand on Rory's face and flips backward, reversing her position. Now she's squatting over his face, hands on his barrel chest, looking at right at Snart.

"And you, perv? What are you going to do?"

Snart shrugs one shoulder and kicks out his legs. Just gives her one of those tight, shrunken little smirks and doesn't blink.

"Len's what you might call a cold fish," Rory says. His voice is slightly muffled by her thighs. "Watches. Doesn't do touch, much."

Sara looks over her shoulder at Rory's jutting chin. She thinks of blankets, sand, heavy foam, anything to choke out a fire, cut off its oxygen, kill the combustion. She could lock her legs right now and make that happen. "Make me come, and we'll see about you."

He doesn't reply. Men like him, they don't trust words; they're never going to be as reliable as fists and guns. Words betray you, slip up, go awry. 

Sara gets that. 

Rory peels down her leggings and grunts when she lowers herself, fast, all the way. His mouth's already open, his tongue flat and waiting; his chin is stubbly, bumpy, and catches the side of her clit *just right*. She's got one knee down, wedged against Rory's neck and shoulder, and the other knee up, her foot right against his ear. She needs this more than she knew; the ache inside her is growing, fluorescing against Rory's mouth, building and deepening until it's shaking down her legs and rattling her ribcage. He grunts, and grunts again, and for the life of her, it sounds like a pig at the trough. His hands are grasping her ass, her hips, holding her, slowing her grind so he can rub his face upward, tongue and chin and nose. He's fucking *slurping* at her, sucking her lips between his teeth and worrying at them like a starving dog.

Snart watches them, eyes narrowed, posture tightening a little more every time she checks, like an arrow getting notched in the slowest motion. He's sitting forward, shoulders going up, knuckles growing paler.

The muscles in her arms tremble, and Sara tries to raise her elbows and shift her weight, but she's too far gone, and falls against Rory's belly, turning her head, riding his face, fighting his grasp on her, her hips twitching and jerking. He's digging fat fingers against her ass crack now, pulling her open, groaning into her. 

She's never seen, or heard, Rory so expressive, except maybe in the midst of a firefight. And that's what this is for him, as well as for her (who knows about Snart): a race to the end, dirty and quick and ragged. She twists over him, dragging her nails up his side, over the rough, lizard-scale scarred skin, shuddering. She's coming into his mouth, tensing and breaking, the pleasure racing out from deep inside, flooding him, until his grunts turn into gurgles, his legs twitch, his hands flex and release.

She rolls free, pushes herself up on one shaky arm to look at Snart. He's locked in the same position, captivated and intense.

The snap of Rory's suspenders distracts her; he's still on his back, head lolling over to leer lazily at her as he takes out his cock and strokes himself. His hand gets around the shaft, barely.

He smacks his lips at her and jerks a little faster. "Taste real good, girl."

Grabbing his wrist, she twists it back against the floor. His cock bobs, free, untouched. "Watch your mouth."

"Nah, why would I want to do that?" Rory says, maddeningly calm. His chin and cheeks shine with her wet, and he makes sure she knows that, licking his mouth slow and dirty before continuing. "Now. Why don't you see about your end of the bargain?"

He rolls his hips up for emphasis. His dick bounces a little. He's big. That's an understatement; it's bending a little under its own weight. And Sara's still clenching around the aftershocks, bright little sparks whirling up through her. Snart hooks his foot around the edge of a pommel horse and drags his chair that much closer.

When she climbs atop Rory, she couldn't say why, but she faces Snart again. 

His eyes are every bit as much a part of this, cold and sharp and enthralled, as her body, as Rory's. 

"Good luck," Snart says, almost *kindly*, maybe sympathetically, as Sara braces one hand behind her and grabs Rory's dick with the other, squatting over it. 

Behind and beneath her, Rory's chuckle rumbles and stutters. His hands are on her waist, spanning it, callused fingertips digging in.

It takes work, breath and deliberation, to take Rory's cock. She remembers this stretch, that dull, unforgiving burn that threatens to flare up any moment into outright pain, but it's been a while, and she hasn't exactly *missed* it. The head bends a couple times against her; Rory sucks in a breath, curses, and grips her more tightly. He swipes one hand against her, slicking his palm, then rubs it over himself. The heat radiating off him, nudging her open, drives shut her eyes.

"It's a goddamn firehose," Snart says.

Her eyes fly open, Rory groans at the sound of his partner's voice and *pushes* her down by the hip. Sara tilts forward.

Snart's expression is unreadable, immobile, *tight*.

She pants through her mouth, rolls a little more forward, and bats Rory's hand out of the way to grasp his shaft and direct it against her hole. *There's* the popping flare, a swimming dizziness, but soon enough she can move down, and down, getting filled with every crawling millimeter.

Snart's lips are pressed so tightly together they're as pale as his knuckles.

Rory groans again, thrusting, his balls shifting and slapping against his thigh. She rolls them against her palm, eyes on Snart, and he nods, fractionally.

She's on him, around him, and Rory nearly whimpers when she bears down on him, then clenches before lifting up. Then he does grunt, low and obscene, when she's sinking onto him until her mound is crushed against his balls. She has fallen forward, hand braced on his trunk-like thigh, other weighing and pinching his sac. All the while, Snart *watches*, sharpening more and more; once or twice, his tongue darts out, licks the corner of his lips, and she moans at the sight before closing her eyes.

She rides Rory until he's clutching at her with helpless hands, thick fingers poking her waist and back. He's whimpering like a boy, almost-not-quite begging for it. He thrusts up, deeper than ever, nudging the last of her breath out her mouth. She grabs at the hair on his thighs, the scarred skin on his knees, and feels him shudder and shoot and *yowl*.

For a moment, the loudest thing in the world is Snart's breath whistling out his nose.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Sara wiggles, then tugs, herself free, off him. The raw burn nearly makes her stumble on rubbery legs. 

"Hot stuff," Rory says, low, maybe even sincere, to her. He reaches up and squeezes her hand for half a second before she pulls away.

"Well, well, isn't that sweet. Damn near heart*warming*," Snart says. "Cockles and all that."

Grunting, Rory flips him off.

Sara pulls up her ruined leggings, shakes back her hair, and heads for the showers. The sooner she can get clean, the better.


End file.
